


A Shoulder to Lean On

by prncecharming



Category: The Ascendance Trilogy - Jennifer A. Nielsen
Genre: Angst, F/M, buckle up boys, taking place after the shadow throne
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2019-07-31
Updated: 2020-06-29
Packaged: 2020-07-27 13:46:58
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 3
Words: 2,859
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/20047033
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/prncecharming/pseuds/prncecharming
Summary: A persistent pain keeps cropping up with no apparent remedy.





	1. The Flower Girl

**Author's Note:**

> :^)

There was nothing she could do to stop her face from contorting. She knew hiding the pain was a futile effort--she never could’ve kept it from him; he was much too clever for that, often times to his own detriment. It did her no good to pretend all was well in a kingdom that kept pretending it was at peace. He didn’t need any more of that.

But he also didn’t need another thing to worry about--and he had proved he would move mountains solely to see her smile one last time...unfortunately. Oh, don’t get her wrong, she was flattered. It felt good to be loved to the moon and back by someone she loved as well, but there was a terrible price to pay for that love--one that kept popping up to collect its debts. 

She sat up in the bed that called itself plush, holding her shoulder where the arrow had pierced. Even with all the comforts in the world, she was still lacking; it was funny, really, now that she thought about--her life at Farthenwood was nothing short of hell, yet here in this castle it felt no better. The familiar sense of longing for...well, she didn’t know--an escape? Help? The devils to stop playing tricks on her? Regardless of what it was, it hung in the air with such a weight that she was surprised the tension failed to wake her husband--

_ Husband _.

She looked over at him as she tried to massage the muscle without any luck. His chest rose and fell as if there wasn’t a care in the world--oh, if only that were true--but she wasn’t jealous of him and his fretful sleeping. Tossing and turning in the night to the drums of nightmares--unspoken accounts he would never find the words to share with her--even one night of uninterrupted rest was rare and never taken for granted.

She wouldn’t wake him. She couldn’t, not tonight.

Looking over to the window, sadness taking up residence in her eyes, she gave up working her shoulder and simply rested her hand there with a sense of defeat covering her as the blankets once did. They all had to make sacrifices, but never in her wildest dreams would she have allowed herself to imagine a world where her sacrifice could impact a kingdom. 

There were things all servants dreamed of--the master of the house serving _ them _ , their freedom, and of course everyone dreamed of being _ royalty _ , who _ wouldn’t _? But--this? This wasn’t what she had envisioned at all. No one in their right mind at Farthenwood, except maybe Cregan--if only because it allowed him his empty victory--would hope for this sort of existence, she knew; a daydream should be an escape from the mundanity and hardships of one’s own life, not the cause of its troubles. 

But--it was fitting, she thought, looking over at her sleeping husband again; neither of them were prepared for a life such as this one, yet it fell to them to lead a nation of people who needed _ them _ \--and needed them to be _ strong _. Imogen closed her eyes as a tear she didn’t know had rolled down her cheek. How could they be expected to bear the weight of the world on their shoulders when they couldn’t even carry their own woes? How could two broken children--mere orphans in the sight of the saints--have what the kingdom needed to thrive?

Imogen silently got up from the bed, replacing the covers as carefully as she could. The bottom of her nightgown danced around her feet as the cool, Carthyan breeze came in through the open window. It was a beautiful night, a night of easy sleep for those that could--if only she was among them. But she wasn’t, she thought to herself as she stepped into her slippers, creeping towards the door as if a mere scrape against the floor would wake Jaron. Pulling the door open slowly, she sidled into the hallway through the crack, carefully closing it behind her.

One thing she didn’t miss about Farthenwood was the curfew. Well, that was a lie--she didn’t miss a _ lot _ of things about Farthenwood, that just happened to be the most relevant one right now, she mused to herself as she padded down the half lit hallway. Servants scurried nearby as if the night hadn’t caught up to them. 

How weird it was not to be one of them.

She knew the routine: rush here and rush there, pray to the saints that everything was ready for the master the next morning, then pray to the devils to cover your bases; at least if the saints didn’t bother to help you, the devils would ensure it would be worthwhile otherwise. Sighing to herself, Imogen stopped herself in a dark corner once she got to the end of the hall, watching those that were up go back and forth under the cover of moonlight and the dim wall sconces. 

She did, however, miss moving--having something to do at every second of the day. It distracted her from the realities of the world. As queen--which she was now, wasn’t she?--those miniscule tasks were handled for her if she wasn’t quick enough to do them for herself. They were just doing their jobs, and she acknowledged them at every opportunity, but--what was _ she _ to do? She wasn’t accustomed to sitting still, not having a worry on her mind--simply _ waiting _.

There had to be something more than this. But after the war--one she was only a pawn in, no less--what was there to do _ but _ sit and wait? Even Jaron struggled with the regents’ meetings often enough for it to be remarked upon with him pacing behind his chair and getting up at inappropriate times. She feared she was no different, though her restlessness expressed itself in these aimless, solitary walks more than anything.

As if a nickname itself was telling, Tarblade’s flower girl became Drylliad’s flower girl, moving from one garden to the next. She never really cared about plants before as she did now, but the feeling of dirt on her hands grounded her in a way that no other thing could these days. 

It was this thought that directed her to the castle gardens before she even knew she had gotten here, but she would never complain. Even in the pale moonlight, the gardens were well kept and beautiful. As she walked between the trees, their leaves bristling in the cool evening air, she could feel the worries of the night dissipate slowly like the flow of water in the fountain she had set her eyes on. Her usual spot was, of course, vacate until she sat herself down to breathe in the night and hear the sounds of the world heaving gently as it waited till sunrise.

There would be a night where she wouldn’t be able to come here by herself, or at all, when her pain flared worse than it already had, but, as with all things, she wouldn’t waste a moment of it.

Even a queen couldn’t command time itself. 

The present was a gift, as they said.


	2. The Walls of Drylliad

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> The cracks in the castle walls carry secrets no fortifications can protect against.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> :D

“Your Majesty, forgive my intrusion, but a man like myself hears the castle walls talk of a sleepless woman wandering at late hours of the evening, would you happen to know anything about that?” A familiar hand fell gently on Imogen’s shoulder as if it was never really there at all. It wasn’t hard to figure out who it was attached to either--nor were they necessarily unwelcome company, but it was hard to keep the tinge of annoyance out of her posture. If only she were more careful, she cursed herself, then no one would think to ask. 

“Harlowe, good to see you,” she said politely as he removed his hand and replaced it behind his back as he often did. “I’m afraid I haven’t heard the same stories, what do they say?” It was no surprise that people had noticed. It was hard not to notice the troupe of unsettled children trying to adjust to whatever this existence was--a new form of torture for some like herself, she was convinced, and she wasn’t the only one plagued by the anxious nature of this armistice either.

Peace never really meant peace. It only meant a lack of direction, which was somehow worse--not that she, or anyone else, would hope for the war back, but it left the occupants of the castle--those who were running with the devils on their heels for the past few years--with nothing to do but pace while the dust settled around them. The saints had all but swept the trouble away, but they left a sort of palette that was without blemish or imperfections. Nothing they could unite like they had against. 

Now came the politics. Even those that had agreed wholeheartedly with each other on significant matters just a few months back differed starkly on their opinions on things that meant nothing and only acted to stroke the egos of those who were none too relevant to the plot.

Harlowe joined her at the table. “They worry about her. They wonder what to do and wish their whispered words would reach her.” The softness in his eyes cast Imogen’s glance down. 

“They needn’t worry, the ghosts and servants of the castle are the only ones haunting it in the midnight hours.” 

“Ah, but that’s why they worry. The woman they speak of is neither ghost nor servant, no matter how much she desires one fate over the other. If the midnight hours are only for such people, why does she herself wander?” If only he wasn’t so perceptive. Then those who hid under a guise of solitude would have more time to come up with a new, convincing truth.

She didn’t answer, her eyes still following the cracks on the floor as if they had the words she sought. There wasn’t much to be said she felt. She ached. And some aches you could only distract yourself from, for that was her lot in life. There wasn’t any fantastical story behind it or secret pain hidden beneath the surface just--an ache, a pain that wouldn’t go away no matter what she did to attend to it.

But she was lying to herself. She had been for awhile now. She knew, deep down. She always knew.

And Harlowe’s questions, no matter how sincere, could never break down the barriers she had put up around herself. She doubted anyone would try nor was she looking for people to try. She could handle herself as she always had, there were others in this castle that needed the sympathy more than she did. Her mind started to wander, filled with the faces of those who had lived the same nightmare--those who also put on a brave face despite a crumbling interior, but how would she know that? If she was to have her facade, she would have to give them their facades--no matter how fake they all were.

“Imogen?” came a gentle prod from the man across the table that pulled her out of her thoughts. She looked up at him, her expression all but blank.

“She wanders because sleep escapes her. The beds here are nothing like she’s used to.” 

Harlowe let out a breath, his shoulders falling as he lost this battle. “I suppose it shouldn’t be too hard to find something that might alleviate her discomfort then.” 

“No. She’ll get used to it,” she said harsher than she meant to. “It isn’t anything to waste your energy on.” The sadness resting in the creases of his wrinkles hung heavy on his face as he opened his mouth but thought better of it. For the second time in the past few minutes, she was forced to look away.

He tried his best. He only wanted to be there. He _ was _ there. But there was only so much he, or any of the other adults who hovered, could do when nothing was offered. He would always be there, she knew--and for that she was grateful, but this wasn’t the time. It never _ would _ be the time if she had her way.

There were others in the castle who needed it more.

She would handle herself as she always had.


	3. The Fall of a Monarch

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> A routine activity is taken a step too far.

Their swords scraped together with more force than either boy meant to give and as if in sync, they each jumped back from the other, holding the hilt of the blade steadily--out of breath as their gaze held strong on their opponent. Circling the courtyard like two mountain lions ready to pounce, they both stepped slowly to the side waiting for any sign of movement as leaves crunched underfoot.

The world had all but ceased to exist around them, leaving only the scrape of metal and the near misses they were accustomed to. The eyes that followed them from behind the pillars waited wordlessly for unspoken permission to approach if need be--but neither of the duelers foresaw it coming to that; though it was their usual lack of foresight that led to the courtyard being filled with those who worried for them, even if they themselves didn’t.

One of those gathered for the spectacle was a man who had been with both boys since the start of their adventure. He leaned forward on his knees, protectively shielding his side as his chin rested on his hands. He could hardly say he trained these young men himself as one had trained on castle grounds unbeknownst at the time and the other with a man who had his own imposing illusions of grandeur.

The captain of the guard swiped right on the king, who narrowly avoided ruining his new haircut. Did he dislike it _that_ much? Jaron’s hand went to feel the hair hanging over his forehead, tilting his head over at his captain as if he had committed a mortal sin. In the moment it took Roden to roll his eyes, Jaron had already brought his sword down against his--but while it may have worked on a less experienced man, Roden easily caught it, deflecting him off with a certain amount of ease.

The edge of the king’s lips went up as he regained his steps, cracking his neck to each side before Roden came forward this time--but where Jaron thought he was going high, he went low.

Too low for him to catch in time.

When there was no immediate response, Roden took a step back, his own brows contorting in response to Jaron’s hesitation. Jaron’s hand now went to his side, the cotton material had been sliced open. His fingers delicately pushed against it as he drew in a breath through his teeth at the apparent pain. As he brought it away, the tips of his fingers were a distinct bright red.

Neither of them moved. Frozen in place, the two of them exchanged another glance as a deeper color stained the side of Jaron’s clothes. The captain’s sword was unsteady in his hand as the other man and his sword clattered to the ground in shock.

Quite suddenly, the world around them grew louder as attendants rushed into their line of sight. Before the whole of them could swarm the two boys, the man who had been watching off to the side put up his hands to stop them from descending too soon. Mott looked down at Jaron, who didn’t seem to register the extent of his pain yet, and back over at Roden, who seemed to have registered it all too well. His hand was shaking as he looked around wildly. Before Mott could react, Roden had taken off.

He shot a hand over to stop him, calling out the captain’s name, but he was too far gone to hear. Mott took in a deep breath, watching Roden leave without a word more. Kneeling down beside his king, the attendants had already begun assessing the wound--which Jaron seemed all too light hearted about, even if there was pain hiding off on the edge of his face.

“Could be worse,” he hissed out through gritted teeth as a young woman applied alcohol to his side. Was this whole group really necessary? He wasn’t going to _die_ from such a small cut--the devil’s weren’t _that_ cruel.

“Could be _better_,” Mott sighed, putting a gentle pressure on his wound after the bandages were placed. Jaron closed his eyes, taking in a deep breath through his nose. This had never gotten easier despite his years of troublemaking providing _plenty_ of experience in this area.

“You’d think they’d come up with a better way to tend to someone _already_ in pain. Why would you ever think to add more?”

“Because people like _you_ keep coming _back_ for more.” Mott moved his hand as Jaron let out another low hiss, his face contorting. “It supposedly prevents stupidity.”

“Clearly it _doesn’t_.”

“Clearly.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Chapter 4 will hopefully be up sometime this week! Thanks for your continued support! Have a lovely day! <3


End file.
